“I want one month.” I swallow hard. “A month of what?” “A month of true slavery.” I fidget in place, the ancient wooden boards creaking under my feet. “I’m already doing all the things you asked.” He closes the space between us, looking down into my eyes. “I want more.” My heart is in my throat, like a bird in the hand, trying to escape. “Tell me what you want,” I whisper. Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. He holds it between his thumb and index finger, letting it drop and hang suspended from his hand. A strip of leather with a single metal ring in the center. A collar. “I
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